"Starboard a little!" He stood beside Inch at the quarterdeck rail, his telescope across the weather side as the wheel creaked over.
"Steady as you go!" He could hear Inch breathing noisily, and level with his waist saw one of the quarterdeck gunners kneeling at the breech of a ninepounder, naked to the waist in spite of the freezing air, a cutlass thrust carelessly through his belt, the hilt black against his bare spine. The length of the man's pigtail told Bolitho he was no novice, and he hoped that at every division of guns there would be a few-other than the petty officers in charge-who would bring stability and order when the time came.
Someone dropped a rammer on the main deck, and when he darted an angry glance forward he realised with a start that he could see the forecastle and the web of rigging around the bowspirt and jib boom beyond. But as the ship regained her personality from the fading darkness the mist appeared to grow thicker and whiter, until at length Hyperion seemed to be floating helplessly abeam, the illusion made more complete by the speed with which the wet mist passed through and around the shrouds.
Bolitho said suddenly, "Get aloft, Mr. Gascoigne. You've a sharp pair of eyes."
As the midshipman hurled himself up the ratlines, Inch said, "We could miss the frigate, sir."
Bolitho saw the main topsail shake in a down eddy, and in those brief seconds noticed a faint patch of blue. Above the mist the sky was already clearing. Bright and cold, which was just as well.
Blocks and halyards clattered nervously, and Gossett murmured, "Wind's freshenin', sir."
It was very slight, but enough. All at once the mist was breaking up and thinning into low lying vapour, and even as Gascoigne's shrill cry came down to the waiting men, Bolitho saw the other ship's outline.
"Frigate fine on the starboard bow!" Gascoigne was yelling with excitement. "At anchor, sir!"
Inch stared from the other ship to Bolitho, as if unable to believe either.
Bolitho watched the frigate impassively as her outline hardened against the mist which was already passing her and drifting towards the open sea. There was the headland, blue-grey in the dawn light, and although it was still impossible to see the other side of the estuary he knew he had calculated correctly, and could almost find pity for the first man aboard the frigate to see the slow moving Hyperion. Placed between him .and safety she would look like a messenger from hell itself, he thought, with her gently flapping topsails and topgallants, her courses clewed up, and that gold-faced, hard-eyed figurehead pointing his trident as if to steer the ship straight on his victim.
Across the strip of swirling water Bolitho heard the sudden blare of a trumpet. A mile yet separated the frigate from the two-decker, but even if she cut her cable it would take time to drive the men to quarters and raise enough canvas to beat clear. Above his head Bolitho heard the topsail billowing like subdued thunder as the ship glided clear of the headland's shelter. The frigate would not get that time.
He gripped the rail and shouted, "Listen to me!" The men at the guns and braces tore their eyes from the frigate and stared aft as one. "That is a French ship yonder, and I intend to engage her." Someone cheered, but fell silent under his captain's unsmiling stare. "If we can take her as a prize all well and good. But if not we will destroy herl" He let his words sink in and then added, "But do not be deceived by her appearance. She can still give a good account of herself, and I have seen as many men die from overconfidence as from the enemy's accuracy!" Then he smiled, in spite of the steel-hard tension in his stomach.
''Do your best, lads! For the ship, and for England!"
He turned back to the nettings as cheers broke out along the lines of guns, to be taken up by the men on the lower deck, until the whole ship was alive with yells and cries of excitement.
Bolitho said quietly "Let them cheer, Mr. Inch. At least it might unnerve the Frogs, eh?"
Nearer, nearer, and all the while Bolitho watched the confusion aboard the rudely awakened frigate, as first a flapping jib and then the foretopsail appeared, before a lookout called down, "She's cut 'er cable, sirl" Another yelled, "'E's 'oistin' 'is colours!"
Bolitho watched as the Tricolour broke from the frigate's gaff. Her rightful flag this time. Anyway, it was quite obvious he was not going to give in without a fight.
"Run out, Mr. Inchl"
A whistle shrilled, and as the port lids were raised the waiting muzzles raced each other down the tilting deck until the Hyperion showed her full broadside to the French ship like a double line of black teeth.
Stepkyne was standing at the foot of the foremast, his i sword drawn, his eyes towards the quarterdeck.
On the forescastle Lieutenant Hicks of the marines waited beside the two massive carronades, while the bulk of the redcoats had broken from their neat square to deploy along the poop and quarterdeck nettings, their long muskets already trained on the approaching ship.
"Larboard your helm!".Bolitho held out his hand as if to control his ship. "Steady, lads!" He watched the jib boom settle in line with the frigate's foremast, until it seemed as if the other vessel was already pinioned on it like a giant tusk.
"Steady!" His heart was thumping against his ribs, and he could feel the dryness on his lips like salt. "Stand by, Mr. Gossett!"
The enemy captain had probably intended to turn away and run for it. He would not be able to pass the Hyperion's massive armament unscathed, but once in open water could outsail her within minutes.
Bolitho knew that to every captainn the enemies were the "ifs" and the "whys".
Why had the lookout not seen the Hyperion earlier? Or if only the mist had not prevented her being sighted, if Bolitho had misjudged his blind approach, and if only the sail could have been loosed just a few minutes quicker. All that and more would be flashing through the Frenchman's mind as he stared now at the gleaming two-decker as she drove straight at the heart of his own command.
There was no time to run for it. To expose his unprotected stem to those twenty-four pounders would be the end without firing a shot in reply.
Almost dejectedly the frigate's yards swung round, her larboard guns already running out as she prepared to accept the challenge.
Bolitho snapped, "Now!"
Gosett bellowed, "Helm a-lee!"
When the double wheel went over, the yards were already creaking round, and as he steadied himself against the rail Bolitho saw the bowsprit swinging further and further, the impetus of wind and rudder turning the old ship to run all but level with the enemy.
"Fire as you bear!"
He watched Stepkyne run to the forward twelvepounder and crouch beside the gun captain, staring through the open port as the ship wheeled ponderously beneath him and the French frigate glided across the muzzle.
"Fire!" He sliced the air with his sword, and down the length of the main deck gun captain after gun captain jerked his trigger line, and the sea faded in a great wall of billowing brown smoke, the air torn apart by the detonations.
Bolitho yelled, "Again, lads!" He wiped his streaming eyes and felt the deck quiver to the squeal and rumble of trucks as the first guns were sponged, loaded and run out once more.
"Fire!" The smashing explosions shook the hull like earth tremors, and when the quarterdeck nine-pounders hurled themselves inboard on their tackles Bolitho saw the frigate's foretopmast quiver and then stagger drunkenly into the smoke.
He shouted, "Reload, damn you!" Some of the men had left their -stations and were capering and cheering through the choking smoke as they tried to see the extent of their bombardment.
"Larboard your helm!" He saw the smoke gush and writhe in long yellow tongues as the Frenchman fired for the first time.
The balls were puny by comparison, but Bolitho felt them strike hard into his ship's hull and shouted, "Close the range, Mr. Gossettl"
The main deck gunners had stopped cheering, and as Stepkyne dropped his sword and the guns hurled themselves inboard again, many must have been surprised that a mere frigate could hit back and surviv
e such punishment.
A ball crashed into the starboard gangway and a man fell shrieking, a jagged wood splinter driven into his back like an arrow. Some of his companions left their gun to help the writhing figure towards the hatch but Bolitho yelled, "Get back to your station!" Another ball ploughed through an open port and smashed into the hesitant seamen like an axe. One second a group of dazed confused men. The next there was a tangle of limbs and blood which seemed to be everywhere amongst the thrashing remains.
Bolitho tore his eyes away and noticed that the frigate's maintopmast had vanished also, and when a freak wind drove away the smoke he saw what his broadsides had done.
Her sails were in ribbons, and the low lying hull was battered almost beyond recognition. Here and there a gun still fired, but as Hyperion's lower battery roared out across the narrow strip of water Bolitho saw the blood seeping from the frigate's scuppers, watched ice-cold as corpses fell from the splintered tops and yards to join the flotsam and wreckage which floated unheeded between the two ships.
Great pieces of the Frenchman's bulwark and gangway 68
were flying skyward, and even without a glass Bolitho could see the carnage strewn around the littered deck, like the interior of a slaughterhouse.
He snapped, "Cease firing!" As silence fell over the dreadful scene Bolitho stared at the frigate with something like dismay. Then he cupped his hands and yelled, "Strike your colours! Strike!"
The frigate might still be repaired and used to replace Ithuriel. A prize crew could take her to Plymouth or Cadiz, where her papers and documents would yield further information about her.
Below his feet he felt the deck murmuring to the rumble of guntrucks as the men completed reloading before running out once more to face the enemy across less than seventy yards of water.
No guns fired from the frigate, but there was a sudden rattle of musketry from her poop, and a marine beside Inch threw his hands to his face and screamed like an animal as the blood gushed between his fingers. He was still screaming when he was seized and dragged below to the surgeon.
Gossett took off his hat and stared at a gobbet of blood which had splashed it like a cockade. He said, "The Frog cap'n still 'opes 'e can slip past us, sir."
Bolitho peered forward above the crouching gun captains. It was true. Following the frigate in a wide arc, the Hyperion was now pointing straight at the opposite headland. He would have to go about soon, and that would enable the Frenchman to slip past.
The Tricolour still flapped from the gaff, and the musketry was a clear answer to his plea to end the onesided fight.
Yet he could not give the order to fire. Without leaning out over the nettings he could picture that double line of guns, with each port filled with watching eyes and a gaping muzzle. Every gun aboard the frigate's engaged side was either upended or smashed, and she was already so low in the water that she could not last much longer without more men to assist her. He could not let her escape, nor could he risk his own men's lives in an attempt
at boarding. The French captain must be a fanatic. He smiled half to himself, and the naked-backed seaman at his side seeing the curve of his lips shook his pigtailed head in wonderment. But Bolitho's smile was one of pity and sadness. He was remembering himself as a young frigate captain matched against a ship of the line. The "ifs" and "whys" had been on his side that day, or maybe he had just been lucky, he thought dully.
Two feet hit the deck with a loud crash, and for a moment he imagined a wounded man had fallen from the yards. But it was Gaseoign. Bolitho had forgotten all about the young midshipman until this moment.
"Well, boy, why have you left the masthead7" It was a stupid question, but it was giving him a few more seconds to think and decide what to do.
Gascoigne rubbed his sore hands. "Couldn't make myself heard, sir." He swung his arms towards the estuary. Beyond the sandbars and the remnants of offshore mist Bolitho saw the dark outline of land and the once busy waterway to Bordeaux.
He blurted, "Masts, sir! The mist is so thick up there I couldn't see too much, but masts there are and plenty!" He recovered himself and blushed. "Three or four ships, sir, and coming our way!"
Bolitho saw Inch's face across the boy's shoulder. "Now we know, Mr. Inch!" He walked to the rail and pointed at Lieutenant Stepkyne. "Go along each gun in turn. I want every ball to hit!" He looked impassively at the slow moving frigate. There were sandbars beyond her, and Hyperion was near the centre of the main channel. "I want her sunk where she is now, Mr. Stepkyne." He removed his hat and did not even flinch as a musket ball struck a nine-pounder and whined away over the poop.
Stepkyne walked to the first gun. A midshipman stood at the main hatch ready to pass the word to the lower battery, so that each weapon would have a twin for the final act.
"Fire!" Bolitho looked away as the frigate's mizzen fell in a great welter of fractured spars and tangled rigging.
"Fire!" A whole section of the main deck erupted in splinters, amidst which corpses and, dying men were thrown about like bloodied rag dolls.
In between each remorseless pair of explosions he could hear men screaming and sobbing, as if the ship herself was pleading for mercy. He gripped the rail, willing the frigate to sink and end the slaughter.
"Fire!"
Bubbles were already churning the bloodstained water around the ship into a miniature whirlpool, and here and there a despairing survivor was leaping overboard, only to be carried away on the swift current.
Gossett said thickly, "She's goin', sir!" He was looking at Bolitho as if seeing a stranger.
Two last shots bellowed from the Hyperion's ports, and as the order to cease fire reached the lower battery Bolitho said harshly, "We will wear ship, Mr. Gossett!"
He tore his eyes from the shattered, listing hull and looked at Gaseoign by his side. "You did well, my lad."
He tried to smile but his lips felt frozen. Even Gossett thought he had slaughtered helpless men to no purpose. He snapped, "Carry on!"
Sails slapping and cracking to the fresh wind, the ship swung her stem slowly across the wind. Bolitho waited, counting seconds, then said, "Steer nor' nor'-west."
Gossett faltered under Bolitho's eyes. "Beg pardon, sir, but we'll need to 'ead more west'rd to clear the 'eadland."
Bolitho ignored. him. "Shorten sail, Mr. Inch. We are going to anchor directly."
If he had uttered some dreadful obscenity he could not have cause greater consternation.
He did not wait for anyone to speak. "Mr. Gascoigne has seen what that frigate was hiding from us. And why it was necessary to take the Ithuriel before she could warn us." He pointed across the starboard quarter. "There are ships putting to sea, gentlemen! There is no frigate for us to send to the commodore for help, and we do not have the speed for such business." He looked around their tense and shocked faces. "We will anchor in the centre of the channel." He turned his head to watch' as the frigate dipped and rolled over in a great welter of bubbles and swirling wreckage. "Any large ship must pass us. The other channel will be blocked by the wreck."
Inch said in a small voice, "But we are alone sir!"
"I know that!" He softened his tone slightly. "Pelham.Martin may send someone to see what we are about." He looked away. "In the meantime we must do all we can to stop or cripple as many as we are able!"
Then he walked back to the rail and stood in silence as the ship glided purposefully towards the first headland. He could feel no anger at Pelham-Martin's foolish optimism or the hopelessness of the next few hours. Below deck some of the men were cheering again, as if they had just won a great victory. The ship was all but unmarked, and but for the bright splash of blood below the nettings, they could have been at manoeuvres.
Inch said wearily, "Shall I stop them cheering, sir?" Bolitho stiffened as a lookout pealed, "Two ships on the starboard quarter, sir!"
Inch stared fixedly at the' topsails of the leading vessel.
They were moving above the low bank of mist, detached
and impersonal, and all the more threatening.
Bolitho replied at length, "Let them cheer." He raised
his voice above the din. "Helm a-lee!" Slowly the Hyperion swung into the wind. "Tops'l clew lines!"
The bowsprit was seeking the land again. Bolitho gripped his hands behind him to control his rising despair. "Let go!"
As a shaft of watery sunlight painted the topmast of the leading ship like a golden crucifix, the last of the mist cleared from the sea as if a curtain had finally been lifted.
All cheering aboard the Hyperion ceased, and over the whole ship there was a silence you could feel.
Bolitho lifted his glass and studied the approaching vessels. The first was a two-decker, so too was the second. Rounding the side of a jutting spur of land came the third, her hull shining as she swung slightly in the current. A three-decker with a vice-admiral's command flag at the fore. Bolitho tried not to lick his lips. It was hopeless. No, it was worse even than that.
He wondered briefly what the leading captain must be thinking at this moment in time. At last the order to sail had been given. The watching English frigate had been overpowered before the alarm could be passed, and after months of waiting, the French were on the move again.
There was the open sea, with a bright if blurred horizon as the prize.
But alone in the centre of the channel was a single ship, anchored and ready for a fight to the finish.
Allday crossed the deck and held out Bolitho's sword. As he clasped the belt around his waist he said quietly, "It's a fine day for it, Captain." Their eyes met as he added, "First really good one since we left England!"
There were, as Gascoigne had indicated, four French ships in all, and as the minutes dragged by it seemed to the watching British seamen that the whole channel was filling with sails and masts.
Bolitho made himself walk aft to the poop ladder where Roth, the Hyperion's fourth lieutenant, was standing as if mesmerised beside his nine-pounders. Roth had proved to be a competent officer and quick to learn the implications of his first appointment to a ship of the line. But as he stared at the oncoming ships his face was the colour of parchment.
Enemy In Sight! Page 7